


The Game

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F, also sara's a sci fi nerd pass it on, but they ruin all the touching bits in their own special way, essentially a gumball machine proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara and Lisa are having an argument about who loves who more, in the form of stating hypothetical actions that they would take on the behalf of one another, each more extravagant than the last--they hit a stalemate, but Lisa has an ace up her sleeve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> I'm getting caught up! Here's yesterday's valentines fic, based on the prompt "Proposal."
> 
> Happy femslash february!

"Imagine, if you will," Sara says, her head resting on Lisa's stomach, "the surface of the moon. Craters, all across it, distinctly lacking in both atmosphere and universally spongy flora and fauna, despite HG Wells's theorizing on the matter. However—"

 

Lisa plays idly with a strand of Sara's hair, makes a vaguely judgmental noise from somewhere in the back of her throat. "Relevancy, counselor?"

 

"This isn't a courtroom, it's my sister that's the lawyer, and _I'm getting there_." Sara prods Lisa's sigh with a huff. "Okay, so, the moon."

 

"The moon," Lisa echoes, raising her hands above her, forming a circle with her index fingers and thumbs, framing a patch of the popcorn ceiling. "I hate the moon. It just sits up there, judging us, staring down at us like one giant cosmic eyeball. The only nights I feel peace are new moons, when the eye has blinked shut, and—"

 

"God damn it, Lisa, let me be romantic!"

 

Lisa huffs, lets her arms drop to her sides. "Get on with it, we haven't got all day."

 

Sara rolls her eyes—Lisa can't see it, maybe, but she knows she does. "Fine, I'd have risked hypothermia and death by Selenite to go back and rescue you, rather than leave you to die alone on the moon."

 

"You're such a nerd," Lisa says, snorts, threads her fingers through Sara's.

 

"I was working Wells over for a mission, Lisa; I had to read all of his stuff I could get my hands on." Lisa holds her silence, lets Sara imagine the look of disbelief on her face, and then Sara huffs, buries her face in Lisa's shoulder. "Fine, I read _War of the Worlds_ and _The First Men in the Moon_ when I was sixteen, are you happy? But everything else was just a few months ago."

 

"Whatever," Lisa rolls her eyes. "And I don't think going on a suicide mission to save me is superior to getting myself cursed by the random witch so she won't curse you; I still win."

 

"Subjective," Sara points out, huffs. "And I still think 'coming back to life for you' shouldn't have been disqualified. Just because I've already done it once, for reasons unrelated to you, doesn't mean I'm particularly keen on it being necessary any time soon." She rolls, deftly maneuvers herself so that she's tucked into Lisa's side, their legs tangled together, her left arm draped across Lisa's stomach. (Lisa's arm curls tightly around her, a circle of hard muscle and bone that says everything Lisa won't about how she too isn't thrilled at the thought of Sara dying.)

 

"We agreed, before we started this competition, that we couldn't count anything that we'd already done, no matter the circumstances surrounding it." Lisa's fingers trail soft patterns over Sara's shoulder, her face smugly confident as she claims, "But one way or another I win. I love you more."

 

"How so?" Sara challenges, prods Lisa's stomach sharply with her finger. "We hit a stalemate with that last one."

 

Lisa lifts her hips from the bed, carefully fishes her wallet out of her back pocket as Sara obligingly pulls back to give her room to maneuver. She's watching Lisa with narrowed eyes, propped up on her elbows. "Having an embarrassing photo of me in your wallet doesn't prove you love me more, Lisa, it just proves you're a creepy stalker who talked my sister into giving you a picture from my pink hair days."

 

Lisa's eyebrow rises. "We're revisiting _that_ story later, I can assure you." Sara huffs, rolls her eyes, opens her mouth to shoot back a comment—and then her mouth softens, rounds out into a little 'o' of surprise as Lisa fishes a ring out of the change compartment.

 

Lisa holds it flat in her palm, bites her lip for a moment. "It's not a real one. I steal jewels for a living, so that didn't seem like it would be very—I don't know, exactly. Diamonds and gold felt so mundane, whether I was paying for them or stealing them. But this little plastic thing, it's the product of one of an unmentionable number of quarters and an hour with a gumball machine in the front section of a Publix." She tilts her palm, lets the ring slide into Sara's hand instead. "So that's what I would do for you. Spend over an hour getting weird looks from grocery store employees, just so that I could propose."

 

"So propose," Sara says, dragging her eyes from the ring up to Lisa's. "You haven't actually—"

 

"Sara Lance," Lisa murmurs, reaches out to cup Sara's cheek with one slightly trembling hand, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you and your ridiculous sense of humor and outrageous fashion choices—"

 

"One to talk," Sara mumbles, but Lisa ignores her.

 

"—and your strange sense of justice and stubborn, beautiful heart, assuming you'll have me. Will you marry me?" Lisa smiles, nervous, and Sara presses close to kiss her, tastes like gunpowder and vanilla—or maybe that's just Lisa.

 

Sara draws back, a smile splitting her face, and declares, "Yes, Lisa Snart, I will marry you." She hands back the ring, lets Lisa slide it on—it's made for a child, too small to quite fit her ring finger, just right for her pinkie. She turns her hand, the light catching on the fingerprints Lisa's left behind, a soft smile on her face. Then her eyes flick back to Lisa's, a crinkle of happiness in the corner of each, and Lisa's pocket feels a thousand times lighter for the absence of a few grams of plastic.

 

"I love you, Lisa," Sara tells her. "You and your ridiculous almost-moral code and nonsensical sense of style, your penchant for the dramatic and the _way your ass looks in leather_."

 

Lisa winks lasciviously as Sara laughs, then leans forward to press another kiss against Sara's lips—finds herself stopped by Sara's index finger, Sara's eyebrow rising. "You didn't win."

 

Lisa blinks. "What?" she asks, voice slightly muffled by the press of Sara's finger across her lips.

 

Sara smiles serenely, flops onto her back as she holds her hand up above her, admiring her plastic ring. "You didn't win the 'who loves who more' game. Previous actions- no matter the circumstances surrounding them- are disqualified, and you'd already been gawked at by grocery store employees before play started."

 

Lisa draws back, eyes narrowing. "I should think that this could be an exception."

 

"'No matter the circumstances,'" Sara singsongs back at her, turns to present Lisa with a smug smirk. "It's a draw, neither of us won."

 

"I just proposed to you, and you won't even let me win?" Lisa demands, prods Sara in the side rather forcefully.

 

"Never," Sara declares, bares her teeth—

 

And that is the exact moment Lisa chooses to blame for why, thirty minutes later, they're lying in the middle of the floor, clutching their sides as they gasp with laughter, the room utterly destroyed around them. They were careful, even as they wrestled- Lisa demanding the ring back for Sara's impotence, Sara insisting there are no take backs within a week of a proposal- not to hurt each other.

 

But the furniture was in no way off limits.

 

Lisa rolls, presses her cheek against Sara's chest. "Love you, too," she says, threads of laughter still in her tone, and Sara throws an arm around her, draws her in tight.

 

"Think Rip will let us get married in the seventies?" she asks idly, fingers threading through Lisa's hair.

 

"Absolutely not," Lisa says, begins pressing soft kisses along every inch of skin she can reach. "But why do we need permission from some straight-laced Time Master when we know a speedster who can run his way into the past? I'm sure Laurel and Cisco could put in a good word for us."

 


End file.
